Visiting Hours

 My friend Jessica and her boyfriend Ben came over from the States to visit me. That's SO untrue. They're going to a wedding down south, but went out of their way to see me in out-of-the-way-Belfast. I got a single day. A Monday. A bank holiday Monday, and three days after the Glorious Twelfth, the Protestants own angry, noisy, summer Christmas. 

I was worried before they arrived. What was I going to do with them? Belfast is shut on Mondays. The museums are shut. The good restaurants are shut. The theatre is shut. You can't even get a haircut. This was what I was worrying about. 

Jess told me she would be at the hotel for 9.15 in the morning, too early to check in. So she'd dump the bags and the car, and go out and explore a bit of Belfast and, maybe, we could meet for lunch somewhere at 12ish. Lunch? Where? Oh God.

This was what I was worrying about. 

The only photo I have from the day. I look big, red and imposing, Jess looks tiny and terrified. This was not the vibe on the day. Promise. 

I got to the hotel at a quarter to 12, and messaged Jess. No response. Okay. I go into the foyer and the concierge is on me like a dog on a chop. "Can I help you, sir?" He can't, and I bat him away. I'm a man of the world - I'm not cowed by a concierge. However, I do go outside. Outside is a trench full of rubble and red-faced men in Hi-viz. A great welcome to the hotel. I message her again. No reply. 

I walk about a bit. The weather forecast was for thundery showers, but it's hot and sunny. I don't have Jess' phone number and, besides, who knows if her number even works in this country. I go into the Crown bar in case they're in there - it's the tourist trap nearest the hotel. They aren't. I go back to the hotel. 

"Could you help me?" I say to the concierge. 

"Certainly, sir. What seems to be the problem?" I didn't say there was a problem. There's no PROBLEM. Why are you saying there's a problem? I take against him. 

"I'm waiting for my friend - she's staying here - and I was wondering if you could tell me if she's arrived. She's called Jessica Binney."

"Have you tried contacting her?"

"Yes, I have, actually. She's not replying."

The definite suggestion of a smirk. 

"I'm sorry, sir..." his eyes drift to the left of a ledger. "Oh, wait. Jessica Binney? Yes. She has arrived."

"She's checked in?"

"No, she won't have checked in yet."

So, she's here. Abroad in Belfast, somewhere. It's already half 12 and I've e-mailed her as well as messaging her and there's still no reply. So I do the only thing I can think of to do - I decide to wander around Belfast until I bump into her. And so I do. I wander around Belfast thinking "If I were an American tourist in Belfast, where would I go?" I head for the Cathedral Quarter. 

On the way, I formulate a plan. I could give my telephone number to the concierge. When she shows up she can ring me and we can meet. In the interim I can go and have a refreshing pint, and let her come to me. Sweet. One problem. I don't know my telephone number off by heart. I'd have to read it off my phone and I'm wearing the wrong contact lenses. I formulate a further plan. I'll get a pen and a notebook and write down the number and hand it to him. I'll be able to see the digits if I hold them far enough away, but I'm not doing that in front of him. He's already dropped a smirk. 

I wanted a notebook I could put in my back pocket, something small and soft-covered like a Silvine Memo Book, my notebook of choice. There were none to be had anywhere in Belfast. Corner shops and tobacconists no longer stock stationary. The post office had nothing suitable. Waterstones had an array of giant, hardbacked jotters or murderously expensive Moleskines. Moleskine used to do a three pack of smaller notebooks, but they didn't have any in the shop. I went to an art shop but they had nothing. 

Sake. Why does nobody write anymore. You can't plot a novel on your phone. 

You probably can. There's probably an app for it. I used to read a lot of film scripts that sounded like they were plotted on an app on a phone. 

I bumped into my friend Mary outside HMV. I was in a state of sweaty agitation as I explained what was going on. She wrote out my number in her phone, enlarging it, and sent me the now visible number. Thanks Mary. Lovely boiler suit, by the way. I could now read out my own phone number to the concierge without risking another condescending smile. I should probably learn my own phone number, though. I thanked her, and Mary went on her way. And I went straight back to Waterstones, and bought a stupid Moleskine notebook that cost £16. Sorry, Mary. 

As I was paying for it, I felt a vibration in the pocket of my jeans. I took my phone out of my pocket. It was Binney, replying to my messages. The Moleskine notebook had been a waste of money - they were now at the hotel. 

I burst into the foyer. 

"No luck yet, Sir," said the concierge. 

"She's just messaged me. She's in her room."

"Oh. Oh okay."

One job, concierge. 

Five minutes later, I was the recipient of a proper American greeting. When I meet people I know, even my friends, especially my friends, I'm lucky if there's a nod of acknowledgement, a monotone "Oh, there he is." This was not that. There was a scream across the foyer and a beaming, eyes shut embrace. 

"OHMYGODIT'SACTUALLYYOU!OHMYGOD!HIGGINS!"

I hugged back. A polite, businesslike handshake wasn't going to cut it. The concierge looked as if all his certainties had been exploded. 

They hadn't been in the hotel. They hadn't left their bags or parked their car. One job, concierge. They'd only just arrived. She hadn't been replying because she'd been driving a car from Dublin. Jess, when she made our plans, neglected to factor in driving from Dublin to Belfast actually takes time. It does. They're quite far apart. Maybe not to an American...

I met Ben, he got a polite handshake. He's a tall, handsome painter, with a salt and pepper beard and a firm handshake. And a really nice guy. Fair play, Binney. 

We hit the town. I needn't have worried. They didn't want to do things. They just wanted to look around and listen to me explaining Belfast to them. Which I did. You don't realise how strange this place is until you have to explain it to people. But it is. It is deeply strange. 

 I took them to the Crown, and then onto the Cathedral Quarter, past the Black Box, which they knew from my endless nonsense about my fave Belfast venue, out into Commercial Court, which went down very well. The smell of the Duke of York was admired. Not a sentence I ever thought I'd write. 

We dined at The Foundry, which is brand new and seems to have sprung up, fully formed, like a giant's beanstalk. I think it's the site of the original Harp Bar, Belfast's punk haven, though another, less original Harp bar squats opposite, primed for the weekend when it will be full of drunk men in brown shoes who've come up from the country. The Foundry's service is impeccable, the food, while pub grub adjacent, was surprisingly good, and it wasn't even pricey. 

And we chatted. And we sparked off each other. And the years fell away. We were same two bickering assholes we always were. It was great. 

After lunch they insisted on seeing murals, so I took them to the Newtownards Road, where they pointed, and laughed and took pictures, and we were beeped at by puce-faced, bald men who were driving past. Glad they didn't stop to chat. 

As we stood next to that weird yellow Pagoda outside Biddle's Bar, a bird shat between Jess and I as we talked, missing both of us but really sending a message. We both goggled. An inch either way and one of us would have been wearing decorative guano. We walked away, laughing, heathens, cheerfully un-baptised. 

We had a beer in the Ulster Sports Club - it was agreed the place had "a vibe", and then back to the hotel, where Jess fell asleep IMMEDIATELY, and Ben and I talked about the trouble of being artists in a hustler's world, and he told me how the owner of his gallery packs him off to Cape Cod each summer as a painting retreat. 

"You do a lot of residencies, John?" 

"Not really, Ben, no."

"Oh, you should. They're great fun."

"I imagine."

I was home by nine. I'd worn my Doc Marten's, so there would be some continuity with the John she'd known in London, and because I didn't think I'd be walking much. I walked for miles, in fact, and my feet had so many blisters it looked like I'd bound them with bubble-wrap. But it had been a great day. Jess was undimmed and unchanged. There's nothing better than meeting a dear friend of so many years, and slipping right back into rhythm. There are people to whom you are connected forever, and she's one of them. I love that woman.